ground, an ember from Claireâs cigarette.
When I finally lifted my head, Claire was all the way across the lawn, heading for the snow-dusted trees. The ache inside me was cruel and precise. I stood there for a while, my toes stiffening with cold. The church bell near Grand Army Plaza bonged out the hour. There was nothing to do but walk back. I creaked through the school gate and padded down the silent halls. The classrooms were full and preoccupied. I passed by my biology classroom; the new sub, the one that had taken over for Mr Rice, was showinga filmstrip. After Mr Rice had been asked to leave, it came out that the principal had had his eye on him for a while-there had been reports that Mr Rice had acted strangely in his other classes, too. The principal assured us that none of what Mr Rice taught us that last day-the invisible tethers of DNA, the certitude of science-was true. But I didnât want to believe that. Wherever my mother was-walking on a sun-dappled beach, riding a street car in San Francisco, scampering down a rainy street in London-the tether around her was a literal one, a rip cord. Any minute now, it would stretch taut, and sheâd snap back to us.
After school that day, I went home and stared at the buildings across the water for a while, thinking. Then, I sat down at my fatherâs cluttered mahogany desk and wrote Mr Rice a letter. I said I was sorry he had to leave our school, that I hoped he was all right. I wrote that I wanted to know a little more about those magical, unbreakable bonds of DNA heâd spoken about. How exactly did they hold family members together? I was looking for a little more scientific evidence to support this. If he could respond with articles, books, theories, I would be greatly appreciative.
At the bottom of the page, I signed the letter, Yours in Genetics, Summer Davis . When my father came home from a rare day at the lab, he noticed the envelope with Mr Riceâs name on it but no address. Iâd told him a little about Mr Rice-just his theory, not what I believed. Without asking any questions, as if my father sensed something big in me had changed, he picked up the envelope and sealed it with a stamp. He knew the woman in charge of substitute teachers at Peninsula, he said. If I wanted, we could mail the letter to her-sheâd know Mr Riceâs forwarding address.
It didnât seem possible that my father could know such a person-he wasnât involved with the school and hardly knewanyone outside of people he associated with at the lab. But I chose to believe this, too.
I watched as my father wrote out the womanâs address on the envelope. I watched his head disappear down our apartment buildingâs stairs, and I ran to the window and watched his head reappear on the street below. It was comforting to conjure up this image of him later, after heâd become so very different, so very damaged. I tried to remember him as he was right then, walking to that mailbox, protective and productive and strong.
PART TWO
Cobalt, Pennsylvania,
June, 1994
twenty-one-gun salute
Prologue
That winter, I would stand in front of Two World Trade and look for you. I watched people go in and out of the revolving doors, thinking youâd be among them. When you werenât, I went down to the underground mall and brushed through the shoe stores, the Gap, Duane Reade. I kept thinking Iâd find you among the ribbed V-neck sweaters, the first-aid supplies.
Theyâve asked me to pinpoint pivotal times where things began to really change for me, to reconstruct my life as best I can. I remember we were at a party at the Boathouse in Central Park-a friend of yours from your new job had graduated from business school. I had gotten up to go to the bathroom, and when I was on my way back, I saw you sitting at the table, laughing, drinking, eating cold shrimp with a dainty little fork. And I suddenly realized-it didnât matter I was gone. Maybe it
When I finally lifted my head, Claire was all the way across the lawn, heading for the snow-dusted trees. The ache inside me was cruel and precise. I stood there for a while, my toes stiffening with cold. The church bell near Grand Army Plaza bonged out the hour. There was nothing to do but walk back. I creaked through the school gate and padded down the silent halls. The classrooms were full and preoccupied. I passed by my biology classroom; the new sub, the one that had taken over for Mr Rice, was showinga filmstrip. After Mr Rice had been asked to leave, it came out that the principal had had his eye on him for a while-there had been reports that Mr Rice had acted strangely in his other classes, too. The principal assured us that none of what Mr Rice taught us that last day-the invisible tethers of DNA, the certitude of science-was true. But I didnât want to believe that. Wherever my mother was-walking on a sun-dappled beach, riding a street car in San Francisco, scampering down a rainy street in London-the tether around her was a literal one, a rip cord. Any minute now, it would stretch taut, and sheâd snap back to us.
After school that day, I went home and stared at the buildings across the water for a while, thinking. Then, I sat down at my fatherâs cluttered mahogany desk and wrote Mr Rice a letter. I said I was sorry he had to leave our school, that I hoped he was all right. I wrote that I wanted to know a little more about those magical, unbreakable bonds of DNA heâd spoken about. How exactly did they hold family members together? I was looking for a little more scientific evidence to support this. If he could respond with articles, books, theories, I would be greatly appreciative.
At the bottom of the page, I signed the letter, Yours in Genetics, Summer Davis . When my father came home from a rare day at the lab, he noticed the envelope with Mr Riceâs name on it but no address. Iâd told him a little about Mr Rice-just his theory, not what I believed. Without asking any questions, as if my father sensed something big in me had changed, he picked up the envelope and sealed it with a stamp. He knew the woman in charge of substitute teachers at Peninsula, he said. If I wanted, we could mail the letter to her-sheâd know Mr Riceâs forwarding address.
It didnât seem possible that my father could know such a person-he wasnât involved with the school and hardly knewanyone outside of people he associated with at the lab. But I chose to believe this, too.
I watched as my father wrote out the womanâs address on the envelope. I watched his head disappear down our apartment buildingâs stairs, and I ran to the window and watched his head reappear on the street below. It was comforting to conjure up this image of him later, after heâd become so very different, so very damaged. I tried to remember him as he was right then, walking to that mailbox, protective and productive and strong.
PART TWO
Cobalt, Pennsylvania,
June, 1994
twenty-one-gun salute
Prologue
That winter, I would stand in front of Two World Trade and look for you. I watched people go in and out of the revolving doors, thinking youâd be among them. When you werenât, I went down to the underground mall and brushed through the shoe stores, the Gap, Duane Reade. I kept thinking Iâd find you among the ribbed V-neck sweaters, the first-aid supplies.
Theyâve asked me to pinpoint pivotal times where things began to really change for me, to reconstruct my life as best I can. I remember we were at a party at the Boathouse in Central Park-a friend of yours from your new job had graduated from business school. I had gotten up to go to the bathroom, and when I was on my way back, I saw you sitting at the table, laughing, drinking, eating cold shrimp with a dainty little fork. And I suddenly realized-it didnât matter I was gone. Maybe it
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